


Prima Volta

by vanishing_apples



Category: Granblue Fantasy (Video Game)
Genre: Gen, Hurt No Comfort, Origin Story
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-05
Updated: 2018-07-07
Packaged: 2019-06-05 16:15:30
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,815
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15174530
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vanishing_apples/pseuds/vanishing_apples
Summary: Arte's journey to his second long slumber mimicked his first.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Another side-project because I don't create enough distractions for myself. Initially intended to be a one-shot but grew exponentially so I decided to split it.

Arte first awakened to a spectrum of colour where others would have only seen sterile, bleak white. He was not yet taught the appropriate vocabulary with which to label all the shades his sensitive eyes were taking in, but the distinction between them was as apparent to him as light and darkness - concepts he was already familiar with. Some centuries following that day, Arte would have called the colour of the coats donned by his creators who were crowding around his test tube “porcelain”; the marble beneath their feet “pearl”; the walls, ceiling and machinery “alabaster”; and the darker splashes of white within the room “grey”. Later on, he would come to learn that the monotony of his birthplace was specifically so in order not to overwhelm his young sensory faculties. 

But even with such precautions taken, Arte struggled to keep himself from falling apart. The moment his eyes laid on any one of the researchers around him, noise flooded his brain. He soon realised it was their thoughts… no… their feelings flowing into him: awe, envy, curiosity, indifference, wonder, even _disgust_ \- all of them raw, intense and oppressive to Arte’s mind which was all but blank merely moments ago. The concoction of emotions swirled inside his skull and ribcage, soon birthing physical pain. Arte tumbled from the opened door of his drained test tube onto the marble floor below, clutching his throbbing head with one hand and clawing at his chest with the other. He writhed in pain under the eyes of the Astrals who had formed a circle around him; their cold, inquisitive gaze boring holes into his flesh, in a manner similar to spectators feeding their sadistic, morbid curiosity at the spectacle of a wounded animal. 

It wasn’t until Arte begin to cry out from the overstimulation that the crowd dispersed, bringing with them their blended flurries of emotions. Right in front of him remained a single pair of feet from among the white-cladded figures, but stubbornly lingering pain prevented him from any attempts at communication. He remained curled up on the floor, struggling to steady his breathing until a gloved hand descended to lift his face up by the chin. It was a face whose particularities had long been scratched from his memory of that day, and so was the same for the voice that entailed it.

“Welcome to the world, Arte.”

 

\---

 

Feeling more deeply and intensely than any other being turned out to be his function, or so Arte was told. He was also made aware of the fact that there were others like him - primal beasts, each born with a unique duty of its own to fulfill. Throughout his subsequent short life at the labs, Arte would never come to interact with any of his kindred. He was different from them - the Astrals had said - a novel, daring research exploit. Unlike the average primal beast built for raw firepower and meant to serve as security measures or destructive tools, he was a weapon of a different sort - one that targeted the intangible. Arte didn’t understand his purpose very well at all, but he knew that it prevented him from reaching out to others of circumstances similar to his own. They were never of his concerns to begin with, for he was supposed to focus his time and energy on another race called “skydwellers”. 

Still, Arte would come to spend many of his first years in existence void of any direct contact with these skydwellers. Instead, he spent most days roaming spaces called “galleries” built for his specific use. Their walls were always crowded with visual products from skydweller culture, which he immediately took to with great fascination. Having become more adept at tuning his senses, wider spectrums of colours such as those displayed on these works no longer overwhelmed but excited him. He was delighted to learn that they were called “art”, as he had been named. And just as paintings brought him solace, music would do the same. 

Arte’s introduction to music also marked his first glimpse at skydwellers. Even through a screen, the liveliness of their movements, the passion in their sounds and the vigour with which they performed easily infected him. Arte watched in awe as these creatures - physically identical to himself and the Astrals - exuded _life_ in rigorous motion. It was all so foreign to the staccato of routines he had known. Arte could never have imagined existence in such sporadicity, varied intensities and tempos that were so captivating he felt dragged right along by their whims. 

Everything after came naturally to Arte as life was to these skydwellers. It all started as a few instinctive taps of his fingertips against the table’s surface. He then recognised recurring patterns within the melody and prompted his vocal cords to reproduce them. A few rounds of humming along to the cyclic chorus later, he discovered the possibility of harmonisation: by singing in frequencies lower or higher than the main melody by specific pitch intervals, he could greatly add to its attractiveness. Next came embellishments, improvisation, key changing,... One new discovery followed the next in rapid succession, just as Arte’s own emotions built one upon another into a passionate crescendo. 

With these people who were both spatially and temporally removed from himself, Arte felt an uncanny synchronicity that he had never experienced with any other living being within his presence. Their joys, sorrows, anxieties, hopes and dreams flowed into his heart with the stream of music as water through a ravine. Arte’s heart ached as music intensified his yearning for companionship; fueled his desire to _share_ this experience with someone, anyone. For but an instant, Arte felt crushed under the weight of his solitude as he was enraptured.

The powerful experience was slightly disorienting, but it also made Arte’s purpose clearer to himself. He decided to do as his heart demanded of him: to share the joys of the arts he had been blessed with among as many as possible. Perhaps his role would dictate those people to be skydwellers, but the opportunity for him to do the same for Astrals and fellow primals would be wholly welcomed. 

 

\---

 

Arte’s desire to meet with real skydwellers was fulfilled in a rather unexpected manner. That day, he was led not to one of his galleries as usual but to an unfamiliar wing of the labs. According to the Astral researcher who accompanied him, Arte was supposed to put his powers to practical use by providing therapy for an ailing skydweller.

“The subject suffers from psychological trauma due to a recent disaster that befell him and his family. Using your power to influence the heart, we expect your aid in the subject’s rehabilitation process.” - The scientist coldly relayed the details as he began punching numbers on a keypad next to one of the steel doors lining the hallway.

“...So you want me to... talk to them?” - Arte panicked slightly upon the realisation that he had never held a proper conversation with anyone since his birth. How was he supposed to provide relief for someone with no social skills or even adequate knowledge of who they were?

But the heavy steel door sliding open with a jarring screech gave him little time to think or question any further. The researcher’s hand was firmly at his back, guiding him rather forcefully into the room’s sanitised, bleached white interior. 

“Your training thus far should have given you the appropriate tool kits with which to carry out this process. Don’t worry, you’ll know what to do.” 

Despite the Astral’s seemingly comforting words, his icy tone failed to provide any amount of relief. Especially not when Arte was not allowed even a chance to respond before the door was pulled shut once again behind his back. 

Inside the room was a single white bed, a writing desk with a neat pile of paper stacked on top next to some stationery, and at one corner what Arte recognised to be some musical instruments. Everything but the bed looked untouched by the sole occupant of the room - a young boy who was sitting motionlessly on top of it, his single, unbandaged eye downcast. 

The moment Arte’s gaze fell on the boy, whom he realised to also have had his hands, neck and feet in bandage, familiar pain gripped his chest. A dark cacophony of emotions filled Arte’s guts, flowing out from the boy’s heart, but everything was so muddled and melted together it was impossible for him to tell apart which was which. With these swirling whirlpools of negativity inside such a small body, how could this boy remain so void of expression? 

Struggling to find stable footing, Arte steadily made his way towards the boy to sit down next to him on the bed.

“Uhm… Hello. It’s nice to meet you.”

The lack of response added to Arte’s mounting anxiety.

“I was told that you could really use a listener. So do you mind telling me what’s wrong?”

No response again. Arte’s already low self-esteem took a blow from the persistent silent treatment. But he quickly reminded himself how this was not about him, but the suffering boy. Arte also came to realise that the reason behind his conversation partner’s stubborn silence was him having closed up his severely wounded heart. If words would no longer reach the boy, there was little much else for him to do aside from the only other method of communication he knew how.

Recalling a gentle lullaby he had learned from one of the videos, Arte’s lips began to breathe each note to life. He had seen it performed by a female figure next to a resting child, her voice presumably showering the child with as much comfort as it coated his own heart in warmth. Arte did his best to pour passion into his own rendition of the song, to replicate that instance of solace he had experienced. 

The boy’s heart remained murky and unresponsive at first, but by the time he reached the second chorus, a small glimmer could be felt lit up deep within its dark bowels. Arte continued to sing, conjuring in his mind images of the landscape paintings that had brought him a similar calming serenity in the hopes that they would flow into the boy’s mind. In response, the light grew stronger, its rays reached further, piercing through the darkness of the boy’s heart and slashing open its inky shell. An audible sob followed the thick fog of dark emotions dissipating. Arte turned his head to see tears spilling freely from the boy’s unbandaged eye. His heart had finally opened up, but Arte was still at a loss for the right words. Fortunately, the boy was the one to first raise his voice.

“That song. Where did you learn it?”

“I was taught...uhm… I just happened to learn it.” He hastily seized the opportunity for a conversation topic. “Are you familiar with it too?”

“Yeah. It’s… it was a popular lullaby in my village. My parents used to sing it to me when I was little.” 

Was. So this was the disaster the Astral researcher had spoken of. Arte was not yet confident with his conversational skills, but managed to maneuver additional information regarding the boy’s circumstances out of their subsequent dialogue. The boy was the sole survivor of a calamitous fire that had consumed his entire village. He had no idea exactly how much time had passed since then, but when he came to, he was bandaged nearly from head to toe due to severe burns. Some Astrals had managed to save him, but not a single other member of his family.

“I still wonder why they saved me, I’m too screwed up to even make a good guinea pig. Should’ve let me die with my family in that fire. Not like there’s anyone who cares about me still alive anyway.”

The last syllables trembled as if threatening to disintegrate. Despair, agony, resentment - Arte struggled to keep them from bubbling out the cracks of the boy’s heart.

“Please don’t speak so little of the value of your own life. I…” 

He _what_? He had only known this boy for a few minutes. He had nothing of value to offer, nor was he capable of bringing his loved ones back to life, nor heal his wounds. Arte only knew that he did not want this boy to suffer anymore. At least not alone. 

“I… would be very sad if you were gone. You see, you’re actually the very first person I’ve ever had the chance to converse with.”

Judging from the boy’s wide-eyed look, Arte could only figure how stupid he must’ve sounded. Yet he couldn’t bring himself to stay silent.

“I was actually brought here to… uhm… help you, somehow. If help meant making you feel valued, it would be my pleasure to do just that. We could sing together, or create pictures, or anything you feel like doing. Just please, allow me to be your…”

Be his _what_? Arte suddenly found his vocabulary pool void of the word he needed. It was a concept he had never been taught nor experienced himself, yet something his own heart had always eagerly yearned for. 

Arte’s sudden long pause prompted the boy to fill in the blank himself.

“...Friend?”

 _Friend_. Arte wasn’t familiar with the word, but their hearts being in sync at that moment, he was able to tell they were thinking of the same thing. His face lit up with delight.

“Yes! Thank you.” Arte eagerly exclaimed, but immediately felt stupid again for being so cheerful when his proposal hadn’t even been accepted. The sudden reservation must have shown on his face because he could hear the boy stifling a laughter. A flash of amusement could also be felt flaring up within his heart. Arte scratched his cheek awkwardly but was nonetheless, immensely glad to see the boy lightening up. “I’m sorry. But, uh… Will you be my… friend?” 

The syllable felt foreign on his tongue, but Arte liked its sound and the feeling of it parting his lips. 

“ ...Alright.”  
“Thank you! For real this time!” 

It felt odd how much Arte was thanking the boy while he was supposed to be the one providing the help. Yet, the primal beast couldn’t help but feel truly thankful. At long last, he had found companionship.

“My name is Arte. How shall I call you?”

The boy’s heart was still heavy, but Arte could already feel it beginning to heal as more light accumulated at its core. Especially when he answered Arte’s question with a smile.

“Caro.”


	2. Chapter 2

Their meetings were scheduled to take place twice per week, like clockwork. For their very first sessions, however, Caro refused to touch the coloured pencils and paper prepared for him. This was part of his trauma, explained one of the researchers. Despite art supposedly playing a pivotal role in his identity prior to the disaster, Caro had come to associate his pain with the activity of drawing itself. Arte was hesitant to force the boy to confront his demons prematurely. So instead, he decided to simply converse and sing for for the boy as much as he could until Caro himself felt ready to bring up drawing of his own accord. It took time, but the opportunity organically grew out of one of their conversations concerning Caro’s hometown.

“It really wasn’t special. I’ve been to other towns on the same island and I can say there wasn’t anything to set my village apart from the rest.”

Without any prior experiences from which he may draw reference, Arte found it difficult to even imagine what would constitute normalcy and uniqueness.

“What makes you think so? That your village wasn’t special, I mean.”

“It’s the same everywhere. Trees, grass, mountain ranges, forests, streams, the animals... Even all the houses look the same, like there’s not an ounce of creativity in anyone’s body, you know. After years and years of looking at the same things it all became monotonous.” 

Arte cocked his head to the side in genuine confusion and a conscious yet futile effort to convert Caro’s words into imagery. At least half of the things the boy just listed he had never laid eyes upon, the other half Arte wasn’t even sure he was attributing to the right objects. 

“What’s wrong? You’re acting like you haven’t a clue what I’m talking about.” Caro could tell the primal beast was troubled but didn’t understand why.

“That’s… because I don’t. I’m sorry.” Arte’s smile was heavy with guilt. “I’ve never left this place. And all the things you’ve just told me about - things I’ve never seen - already sound like more than everything I have seen here combined, so it was just a bit hard to understand how any of that could be called ‘monotonous’”. 

Spending in his entire life in monochromatic environments had rendered Arte acutely sensitive to the concept of monotony itself. His response brought thoughtful silence to settle in the middle of their conversation, which was only interrupted by Caro’s raising his voice, sounding rather apologetic.

“I see. Mind telling me more about this place where you grew up in? What’s lying outside that door?”

“White. Well, shades of it. But it’s a lot like in here, except sometimes I would come across machinery and lab equipments. The researchers are the only people around, I think.” 

Arte answered matter-of-factly. There really wasn’t much of anything for him to speak of. The world outside of Caro’s room seemed merely an extension of the colourless uniformity within it. 

“Oh, and sometimes I get to go to these galleries to see paintings or hear music. Except for the art and music themselves, those are furnished the same as everywhere else.”

“I’d still like to see it someday, though.” Caro smiled, his one eye glimmered with genuine interest. 

“Really? I’d much rather see your hometown, Caro. It sounds like such a colourful place…” 

Arte’s melancholic answer trailed off into another long stretch of silence, the end of which was marked by Caro suddenly shuffling off his bed to reach for the paper and coloured pencils. An anxious tightness gripped Arte’s chest.

“Caro…? What are you doing?”

Caro’s heart stirring had alarmed Arte. The primal beast almost made an attempt at coming after the boy, dragging him away from his source of discomfort and telling him that he did not have to push himself so for his sake. But something was different about Caro’s anxiety. His emotions may have appeared turbulent, but they were nowhere near as dark and toxic-feeling as any previous episodes of distress. Arte decided to sit back down and let this new development take its natural course, practically on the edge of his seat as he watched Caro beginning to rub coloured graphite into paper. 

Eventually, he was presented with Caro’s first art piece after his arrival at the Astrals’ facilities - a beautifully sketched, almost photographic landscape. The meticulous detail of it all spoke volumes of how long Caro himself had lived in this scenery. Arte’s eyes widened in absolute awe and admiration.

“It’s breathtaking…”

“This…” Caro pointed at one part of the drawing with the eraser end of his pencil. “...is what a mountain range looks like. And this…” He pointed to another object on the picture. “...is a stream.”

“And what’s that orange space above casting light over everything?” 

“...It’s the sky. You’ve never seen the sky before?”

Caro was thoroughly amazed at Arte’s earnestly nodding his head, childlike curiosity gleaming in his eyes.

“I’ve seen it sometimes in the videos at the galleries and some paintings, but it’s always blue. Nothing like this gold-sheened canvas…”

“Well, the sky can be any colours of the rainbow depending on the weather and time of day. Red, orange, blue, pink, purple,... Even black when night falls, but I think that is more of a deep navy blue-”

“What’s a rainbow?”

Caro thought he couldn’t be any more surprised by Arte’s complete lack of worldly experience at this point, but his jaw nonetheless hanged, slightly awestruck at the question. Exhaling a soft sigh through his nose, Caro gathered up some more coloured pencils and started sketching a rainbow on another piece of paper under Arte’s attentive gaze. 

Their day went on with one illustration leading to the next, borne from their conversations and Arte’s insatiable curiosity for a world known only to Caro. Before long, the white marble floor of Caro’s room was almost entirely carpeted with coloured images: different shades of the sky, clouds soaked in light, earth-hued forest floors, animals, bustling village streets bathed in warm sepia, lavish storefronts,... These were all windows into the world of a living, breathing being, and not just anyone - Arte’s first and dearest friend. Every single one of these was contextualised and enriched by stories from his friend’s real, lived experiences. It was for this exact reason that he found them invaluable.

“If you like them so much, you can just bring them home… or wherever you’re staying?” 

Caro almost couldn’t suppress a chuckle at the way Arte’s shoulders jolted in evident excitement.

“Really? Is it okay?” Caro’s room looked so nice and lively now with the new dashes of colour, Arte was hesitant to take it all away for himself.

“Sure. Those Astrals would just clean them all out as part of the litter anyway. They’ll be better in your ha-.”

Caro’s sentence was cut off when Arte tackled him out of the blue, his healing muscles screamed from the sudden force and weight assaulting them. He managed to bite back the pained yelp just in time, raising his bandaged arms to reciprocate the hug.

“Sheesh. You really need to learn to let people finish their sentences.”

“M’sorry… Thank you.” Arte muttered into Caro’s shoulder, voice shaky and overwhelmed by gratitude. “You’ve given me so much, even when I haven’t been of much help to you at all.”

“Wait, are you serious?” Caro pushed Arte away by the shoulder, his one eye widening in disbelief. 

More silence momentarily wedged itself in between them. 

“...Guess this means I’ve never expressed enough gratitude, huh. It’s understandable, mom always scolded me for that.” Caro inhaled deeply before looking straight into Arte’s eyes, seriousness laden in every subsequent word. “Your music is miracle balm to my bruises, Arte. I’d never slept well since the fire until you came along. Now I don’t think I can sleep well at all without getting to hear your singing at least once in a while anymore.”

He tried to laugh it off and lighten the atmosphere, but Caro’s desire to maintain the weight of his words strangled his laughter, turning it into an awkward chuckle instead.

“Huh?”...was far from an appropriate response, but Arte was too stunned from his first time being at the receiving end of appreciation to react otherwise.

“I mean it. And even more than that…” 

Caro had to take a break from his own sentence to stop his voice from quivering. 

“Thank you for liking my art… I used to draw for my family and the other villagers, to make the people in my life happy and all that. But after that incident, it was too painful to even pick up a pencil knowing that my drawings would never make another person smile again... Thanks for being that person for me now.”

Arte’s memories from that point were blurred in terms of factual detail, overpowered by raw emotion, but he vaguely recalled hearing the black spiderwebs of fissures riddling the surface of Caro’s heart fading away slightly. He also remembered asking the Astral researcher who led him back to his dwelling after their meeting for coloured pencils and paper of his own; that he decided to stay up all night to study Caro’s pictures and practice drawing for himself. 

His room was soundproof and separated from the dwellings of other primal beasts by a considerable distance, so as to lessen the strain of their emotions on his heightened senses. But most nights, Arte’s acute sensitivity would still stir him awake by their latching onto a couple stray thoughts that weren’t his own. He had never sensed anything less than emotional distress from other primals, which always caused him to wonder what exactly their lives were like. Their resentment, anger, fear, anxiety, most of which stemming from a common cause of “experimentation”, poured into his body, stretching open his eyelids as discomfort weighed heavily on his ribcage. 

But that night was different. Arte had decided to stay up of his own accord. Being surrounded by Caro’s drawings conjured steady wave after wave of calmness to wash over his entire being, draining tension from his muscles and granting him an unusual amount of control. Calmly drawing a pencil’s tip across paper, Arte directed half of his focus to replicating the photos drawn by Caro (after all, mimicry made good practice for a complete rookie like himself), the other half he used to weave a new melody on his lips. 

He had realised it now. Caro had taught him that one’s own suffering needn’t disable them from caring for the discomfort of others. If one as scar-ridden as Caro was capable of such tremendous strength, maybe he could learn to do the same. Arte wanted his song to reach the ailing primals and soothe their hearts the way Caro’s art had worked wonders for his own loneliness. With that hope held tightly within the grip on his pencil, Caro sang, each note enveloped in earnest sincerity like a carefully wrapped gift. And as the night went on, the other primals’ heart’s discordant melody could be heard melting into rest by dawn's break.


	3. Chapter 3

The damage to Caro’s right eye was irreparable, but the rest of him fortunately avoided the same fate. Months went by, and the bandages on his body gradually peeled away. His skin was marred with the odd patch of scar tissue, but otherwise most damage had healed over nicely. 

Arte was happy that the same could be said about his mental state. Caro had grown more relaxed, eager to converse and even high-spirited. There was genuine enjoyment that Caro found in teaching the primal beast how to sketch, singing with him as Arte strummed on his guitar. Arte even began to compose duets just for them, which overtime accumulated into an entire repertoire of songs they could perform together. Meanwhile the amount of drawings they produced was now enough to fill up both of their rooms, turning the spaces into what seemed like two connected spheres of a colourful dimension separated from the labs’ monochromatic world. 

Even Arte’s powers benefited from their relationship. The primal beast no longer experienced sensory overload during his waking hours at least. Nighttime still brought its fair share of emotional discordance from the other primals, which he struggled to contain. However, Arte suspected that the problem laid not with him, but the source of the primals’ distress exerting increasing pressure on them. Isolated as he was, Arte could do little to help alleviate their pain, so he tried harder at singing the ailing primals to sleep from a distance. Despite his elevated mastery with the skill, increased effort had also resulted in exhaustion and more sleep being taken from his schedule. But with Caro as his constant source of emotional support and creative energy, Arte hardly minded.

This continued until one morning, when Arte was informed that Caro’s treatment would be progressing to the next phase. 

“So I won’t be allowed to help Caro anymore?” 

Inexplicable dread pooled at the pit of his stomach upon hearing the news.

“Rest assured, you will still be playing a pivotal part in the following procedures.” 

Arte still found no relief in the Astral’s words. For some reason, he was still plagued with a sense of foreboding, which grew increasingly acute with every echo of their steps along an almost identical yet unfamiliar hallway. They certainly weren’t heading for Caro’s room.

The space they arrived in were filled with Astrals and significantly more cluttered with machinery, the most prominent of which was a chromium structure positioned in the middle, lined with control boards at its feet and resembling a semi-circular cage. The surge of mixed emotions coming from the crowd was frightfully familiar in its effort to bring Arte to his knees, but he was not about to let them do so this time. He had grown stronger, his senses more adept at filtering out external input. Some of the Astrals actually seemed impressed by his growth, but Arte hardly had the stomach for any pride when some began to lead him into the elevated cage. It felt as if a pit opened up in his bowels when, from his new position, Arte was able to see the wall directly in front of him: A glass barrier stretching from floor to ceiling, on the other side of which was Caro sitting in his room. Caro, on the other hand, seemed completely oblivious to the fact that he was being watched; that he and Arte had been under surveillance the whole time.

But the moment Arte opened his mouth in an attempt to question, a yelp escaped his lips instead from the pain of a needle being jabbed into the back of his neck. The feeling of cold fluid being pumped into his veins was soon followed by some part of his sensory faculties involuntarily shutting down. It was the one that facilitated direct empathy between him and Caro. His blood ran cold, numbing his auditory sense to the sound of the metal cage sliding shut. 

An Astral - his creator, the same person who had welcomed Arte into the world upon his birth, approached with an opened book and quill in hand, his voice icy and indistinguishable from the rest of his peers.

“These past few months, you have demonstrated your capability of infiltrating the heart of this specimen. Today we will be testing the second component of your design: manipulating the heart. For this purpose, you shall be required to complete specific tasks-”

“Excuse me. Why is it necessary that I be restrained in this manner? And why am I not allowed to be in Caro’s presence?”

“It is for our safety as well as your own. These arrangements also make it easier for us to observe and track your progress.”

“Why me? Wasn’t the point of all of this Caro’s rehabilitation? I thought we were making good progress-”

Arte was interrupted by the sound of the book in his creator’s hands being slammed shut with a dull but purposively loud “thud”. The man looked up at him over the edge of his spectacles, eyes void of any sympathy or understanding.

“It’s a shame, we seem to have given you a false impression. This was never about some insignificant skydweller but you, Arte. All these resources, even the skydweller specimen, have been prepared and mobilised for the sake of helping you reach your full potential. As the first primal beast developed for the purpose of guerrilla warfare, you should endeavour to make the greatest use of them all.”

Caro’s heart sank further at every sentence, but his attention was particularly caught by the word _prepared_. What on earth did that mean? What did preparing a living skydweller specimen entail? _What exactly had they done to Caro?_

“...I.” He wanted to protest, but against what, Arte himself had no clue. His brain was short-circuiting, reason failing him when part of his senses had been forcefully shut off.

“Let’s not waste any more time. Providing you with more information would lead to no progress. Just comply as you are told.” 

The crowd of Astral in between Arte and the glass wall separating him from Caro dispersed to provide him full view of the room on the other side. Each of the researchers were holding a clipboard and quill, entirely too eager to document the subsequent experimentation. The boy, on the other hand, was visibly exhibiting impatience and anxiety, presumably due to Arte’s absence from their scheduled meeting together. But Arte himself couldn’t _feel_ any of that, and the numbness in that invisible limb terrified him.

“It seems that you have managed to turn the artistic products made together into a great source of positive energy for the skydweller, solidifying the bond between the two of you. Now we would like to see you reverse that effect.”

Reversing the drawings’ therapeutic effects could only mean turning them back into the triggers of Caro’s trauma. 

“...I can’t do that.”

“If you refuse to comply then this specimen will no longer be of any use to us. We might as well dispose of it.”

‘NO!!” Arte screamed. It was the first time his vocal cords had ever produced such a harsh sound. It left his throat feeling scraped. “Please don’t hurt him!!”

“If you’d rather not let us do the harming, then do it yourself. It’s inevitable. You are powerless in stopping this from happening.”

“But-”

“This won’t be your fault, Arte. Your helplessness leaves you no guilt to bear.”

Arte didn’t even notice the warm wetness streaking his cheeks as despair seized his entire being. But the Astral was right, he had no power over these circumstances. Not his own, nor Caro’s. If he couldn’t even prevent himself from being led into this cage, how could he dream of protecting Caro from anything? 

“You have three seconds, Arte.”

The primal beast clenched his eyes shut as he conjured up chaos in his mind. Fire. Roaring, crackling orange flares that licked all life and structure obstructing their path, charring them to ashes. Plants, animals, buildings, men, women, children, the elderly. Their flesh contorting and sizzling as blazing limbs encircled their bodies. A blood-curdling scream rang out from the other side of the glass wall, giving Arte the confirmation that his powers had fulfilled their intended effect. Even with their empathetic bond severed, the primal beast’s every cell was vibrating with the pain he imagined Caro was going through. 

Arte’s eyelids slid open to the horrific sight of the boy’s room. All the colours on their drawings, which carpeted the floor and lined the walls, had melted into shades of molten metal, framed with black as if charred at the edges. Caro was crouched on the ground in an angle that hid his face from Arte’s view, but his arms were clutching his head and his entire body violently trembling. The primal beast pretended not to hear Caro’s yelling his name on account of the blood pounding in his own ears, instinctively feeling thankful for their lack of a bond that numbed him to the boy’s agony which would have piled on top of his own, and immediately loathed himself for harbouring the selfish thought. Arte could do little to fool himself, however. He knew he was hurting Caro; knew that he was making the boy relive the most nightmarish day of his life.

“Good job. Onto the next task: do the same for your musical compositions.”

To Arte’s utter horror, his own voice and that of Caro harmonising to gentle guitar strumming, though muffled due to the glass wall, could be heard from the interior of Caro’s room. Not only had they been observed but also recorded. But Caro seemed eased by the familiar, soothing sound as his shoulders’ trembling ceased and the his hyperventilation slowed to a reasonable pace of breathing. Arte couldn’t do it. He couldn’t find the cruelty in his heart to take this solace away from Caro. 

“Arte.”

His creator urged, the icy snap of his voice bringing Arte the awareness of every pair of Astral eyes being directly on him: questioning, brimming with expectation, the weight of which settled on his heart - cold and heavy as lead. 

“...Please don’t make me do this.”

Caro’s scream of pain pierced his eardrums. He couldn’t even tell what they were doing to the boy, only that he must put a stop to it. With frayed concentration, Arte once again put his mind to work. 

The clean, crisp quality of each note being broadcasted in Caro’s room began to gradually disintegrate, straying into microtonal territory until every single one was stepping on the toes of the next. Before long, all were reduced to a cacophony of dissonance whose lyrical syllables had been churned until they sounded borderline demonic. And even that somehow further fractured into what could be called semblances of broken prayers. No. Pleas. Arte made it so that his music would sound like cries of despair. 

Caro was entirely silent, but his expression was in full view of Arte this time. It was a face which would have haunted him for all eternity if it had been coupled with an empathetic bond between them - the look of one who had been dropped straight into hell, and Arte had the full awareness of his role in its conception. That awareness was rippling in waves of agony through his own body, but he could only imagine how much more pain Caro was being subjected to.

“Nice work. The last task might be a bit trickier, as you technically lack of a direct memory-altering mechanism. But the bond previously established between you two should have granted you access to enough necessary data on the subject to work with.”

The elaboration was flowing into one of Arte’s ears and right out the next. Who the hell cared? He just wanted it all to be over. Better yet, Arte wished he were already dead.

“Arte. You are to turn the subject against the memories of its own loved ones.”

“...What?”

“You are capable of projecting images into the minds of skydwellers at least. You can do that for this one, can you? Having also heard about and seen the subject’s history during your time together, you would also know how to replicate and alter images of it?”

“...Yes.”

Arte felt a sharp sting in his chest upon uttering his single-syllable answer. But at this point, he had known all too well the futility of objection. So Arte did his best to disconnect, numb his heart to the horror of robbing Caro of the very last, precious vestiges of his happiness. But despite the primal beast’s efforts, he could do nothing to completely blot out the dull, throbbing pain pounding at his core as power once against surge through his limbs and out his fingertips.

If Arte could have but one wish, it would be for Caro to forget he ever existed at all.

\---

Arte’s room had already been bleached of all colours upon his return - Caro’s drawings and his own cleared away without a trace. Not even the coloured pencils nor any unused paper remained. Arte spent the night staring at the white ceiling in a state of catatonia, praying for a miracle that would render his mind as blank as that empty expanse above. The bitter whispers from the other primal beasts were especially loud that night - possibly an effect of all strength having been drained from his mind and body, rendering his senses useless in filtering them out. The assault was aided by his own self-loathing and the voices of Astrals still lingering in his mind from earlier, until the building resonance grew too invasive and abusive towards Arte’s already strained mental state to bear. He curled up into fetal position, shivering as tears silently fell.

 _Useless. A waste of resources. An abomination without purpose._ The realisation that he had fervently resisted all this time came crashing like a tidal wave: He had failed the final task. Caro’s village was burned, everyone he loved slaughtered and himself tormented for nothing now that Arte was but useless scrap in the eyes of at least half the Astrals in that room. Even now, without any form of reassurance, the primal beast was wrestling with his inner demons, struggling against the thought of his only friend having already been killed due to his failure. It persistently gnawed at the frayed edges of his mind regardless.

“I’m sorry… I’m sorry I couldn’t protect you… I’m sorry you had to suffer because I was born.”

The other primals’ resentment towards the Astrals had already begun to blend into his own inner voice of self-accusation. It hurt. All this agony that was not only his own, but Caro’s, the suffering primal beasts, was crushing him - burning friction against his raw nerves. 

The last thing he remembered was his vision vignetting before sound and colour violently burst forth from his body, possibly in response to his desire to shut out all the pain. Little did Arte know, the act would thus conclude the first chapter of his life, even blotting out most memories of it in the process.

> Never looking back  
>  For there’s nothing there to see  
> 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I forgot to explain the title in the first chapter so here goes! Prima volta is the old-timey way of calling the first ending in a written passage of music that is supposed to be repeated. The musician plays all the way through that passage towards that first ending one time, then repeats the same passage but jump to the second ending (seconda volta) when a specific branching point is reached. Arte's progression to his meltdowns are presented as being pretty similar here, but fortunately canon blessed him with a happier second ending.
> 
> Since tomorrow is the last day of the event I'd just like to say: Good night, sweet prince. May you be playable in some distant future ;;

**Author's Note:**

> My twitter if anyone feels like yelling at me, or just talk... Talking is welcomed as well \o/ https://twitter.com/appuru_chan


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